Operation Zulu Redemption: Act of Treason - Part 4 (6 page)

Annie pitched forward, right into Téya as Nuala’s words seared the air. A scream closely followed. Then a splash. Glass nearby exploded. Frenzied shouts and running tourists created upheaval in the setting that had only moments before been the epitome of calm.

“Nuala!” Annie shouted, diving behind a trash can with Téya. They scanned the waters, waiting for the girl to surface.

“Was she shot?” Téya asked.

“I don’t know. She just went in.” Annie’s voice carried the same panic that thumped in Téya’s chest.

A head broke the surface. Nuala gasped, her face screwed tight in pain.

“What’s going on?” Boone shouted through the coms.

“Active shooter,” Téya said, scanning the direction of the shots. She had to try to move to draw fire in order to locate the shooter. She scurried to a metal table and flung it on its side. She dropped behind it, disappointed when there’d been no shots. That meant finding the shooter would be more difficult.

Téya worked through the angles. Through the trajectory of the shots. Determined they had to be either in the bakery building or the lighthouse. Any farther would be too far for accuracy. Any closer. . .well, that’d be too easy because then Zulu would’ve seen him.

A man emerged from the bakery with a pastry in hand.

“I think I see him,” Téya said.

“Berg! That’s Berg Ballenger,” Annie yelled, pointing in the opposite direction.

Téya whipped around, scanning the others. “Where?”

“Brown jacket. Running up the street.”

Téya caught sight of him. “Got him. I’m going.” But then she remembered Nuala and looked back. “Are you okay?”

Annie was leaning over the embankment, reaching for Nuala. “Yes. Go!”

“In pursuit,” Téya called through the coms. “He’s heading east through the town.”

“Alpha Two is en route,” Boone said, indicating Rusty was leaving the nest to assist. “I have eyes on the target.”

Good. Because once he’d rounded that corner, she lost him for the few seconds it took her to break into the open. She kept moving, but having lost him, she slowed.

“Ahead, twenty yards. Blue shirt now.”

Blue shirt. Great. Not like that would blend in or anything. But then Téya had him. “Got him!” Téya sprinted, darting around a jewelry vendor in the middle of the street. A cart of delicious-looking candies. She narrowly avoided a collision with a small girl who darted away from her mother. Téya spun around her but never took her eyes off Ballenger. Spry for a guy with a paunch.

He’d reached the fountain. Skirted it.

Téya leaped onto the three-foot wall around the fountain. Sailed over a little boy bending forward, splashing the water. Landed.

Berg dodged a family with ice cream. Pushing him closer to the fountain.

Téya threw herself at him. A man ducked with a shout as she sailed over him, too. Straight into Ballenger. They collided. He let out what sounded like a gargled scream. Before he could react, Téya flipped him onto his stomach. Pressed her shoulder into his. Grabbed his arm and swung it behind his back and up.

He cried out.

All too aware of the crowd of onlookers, Téya knew she had to get out of the open. “We’re getting up,” she hissed into his ear. “If you try anything, I will end you.”

He groaned in pain.

“Clear?”

He nodded and grimaced again.

She hauled him to his feet just as Rusty arrived and used some zip cuffs to secure him. They turned him around, and Téya froze. “It’s not him,” she breathed, disbelief choking off clear thought. The man had the same hair color and build as Ballenger, but this definitely wasn’t him.

“What’d you mean?” Rusty still held the look-alike.

“Where is he?” Téya demanded.

The man sneered. Gave a breathy laugh, still winded from the escape attempt. Which—was it even an attempt to escape? Or an attempt to draw them away from something else?

“Boone—you still have eyes on One and Six?” she asked into her coms piece.

“Roger. They’re en route. Bring him back here,” Boone said. “We’ll sort it here.”

They herded him out of the square and up into the hotel, chewing on the fact Ballenger had not just tricked them, but put energy and resources into luring them away. Making them look and feel stupid.

The door opened, and Téya saw Nuala sitting on the dinette table with her shirt removed and her tank affording Boone a good angle to mend the wound. Boone shoved to his feet and stalked toward them. “Who are you?”

“Nobody,” the man said with a cocky chip on his shoulder. One Téya really wanted to punch off.

Boone did it for her. He threw a hard right, straight into the guy’s face. He grabbed him and pinned him against the wall. “Okay, Nobody, you’re going to answer questions.”

A crooked, bloody smile crept into his arrogance. “I’m not, actually.”

Hauling back for another punch, Boone looked ready to kill the guy.

“Wait,” Téya said as she caught Boone’s arm. She pushed him back. Slapped her hands against the guy’s chest. “Ballenger sent you.”

Something. . .wrong, something dark glinted in the man’s eyes. “I was sent.”

“Why are you here?” Téya asked.

“I live here.”

“Why were you at Ballenger’s flat? You don’t live there. That place had more droppings than slum alleys.”

His eyes widened. “You went to the flat?”

Téya didn’t like that look. “Why?”

He shook his head. “It’s been rigged for years. If anyone enters it, they’re alerted.”

“Who?”

“HOMe, their lackeys! I’m to deliver a message. He said you’d come.” That greedy gleam replaced the man’s momentary shock.

“What message?” Boone demanded, hovering behind Téya.

“He says you need to focus on a man named Varden.”

Boone stiffened.

Téya glanced at the big guy. “That mean something to you?”

With a lunge, Boone shoved the man toward the door.

“Wait, wait!” the man shouted. “I’m not done.”

“You’re more than done!”

“He said to warn you to stay out of his way. He’s going to finish HOMe no matter what it takes.”

Boone shoved the man out into the hall and closed the door. He secured the locks and turned around, rubbing his jaw.

“Who’s Varden?” Téya asked, hands stiff on her hips.

“Ran into him on a couple of tours.”

“He’s Army?” Téya hated the squeak in her voice. “As in—United States Army? As in, a citizen of the U.S.? Someone who should be our ally?”

“Varden’s only ally is either his bank account or scum like Ballenger who help him get more money.” Boone motioned around the room, gave a nod to Rusty, who was finishing sewing Nuala’s shoulder. “Pack up. We need to clear out immediately.”

“So, we’re not worried about Ballenger?” Nuala asked quietly.

“More than worried,” Boone said. “We need to stop him or take him down.”

Téya held up her hands. “What am I missing? That stranger says Ballenger is warning us, and you just go all lame duck on us?”

Boone rounded on Téya, his strong brow knotting. “Notice his tattoo?” He pointed to a spot at the base of his neck. “Italian Carabinieri Special Intervention Group.
The GIS are specially trained in counterterrorism operations with an emphasis on
marksmanship
.”

“
He’s the one who shot me,” Nuala said quietly.

“We need to clear out.” Boone met her gaze firmly. “Now.”

Trace sat at Magianno’s, lips resting on his knuckles. Having Zulu out of the country assured him they’d be safe—for now. The scene he’d made at the hearing had left him on disciplinary leave with the threat of being discharged, “other than honorably.”

It’s what Marlowe had wanted from the beginning. And maybe Trace had finally handed him the golden ticket to accomplishing that.

He didn’t know. The only thing he did know is that he had to impress upon the senators and representatives that those names could not be made public. Even a closed hearing wasn’t good enough. The names would leak. Lives would be in danger. It wouldn’t end.

Trace lifted the USB drive from his pocket. Set it on the table and took a bite of his Hawaiian BBQ pizza. Téya had given the drive to him. But he just had this sinking feeling that the moment he plugged it into one of his systems, The Turk and his people would have access to everything. They could decimate him. More than Marlowe. They could get into secure military files.

He gulped some water, eyeing the drive. Tapping it against the metal table. He felt like Eve must’ve in the Garden of Eden—the USB drive being the apple tempting him to take a bite. Free himself.

Nothing is free.

He sighed and took another bite of his pizza. This late at night and the eatery was still crowded. Gave him a place to be alone with his thoughts but not alone to be killed. Not that anyone had tried.

Why not?

Why hadn’t they tried to kill him? He’d been open and available numerous times.

He roughed his hand over his face and groaned.
God. . .
Had it come to that?
God, I need help
. And he meant it as a prayer, not just an oath. Though, maybe his desperation made it some of that, too.

Air shifted around him. Trace lowered his hands, and an explosion of warm dread erupted in his gut as he found himself staring at a woman. She wore a hijab and had vibrant brown eyes that were impossibly large around a small nose and mouth. Mentally, he reached for his weapon. He always had one on him.

“My name is Badriyya Kanoun.”

Oh crap. Turkish. “What can I do for you?”

The left side of her face pulled upward in a half smile. “You have not used the USB.”

“Felt risky.”

She smiled fully this time, revealing perfect, white teeth. The smile reached her eyes. “Smart man.” She reached into her purse.

Trace moved his hand toward his weapon.

“You should know that I never travel with less than four bodyguards.” She gave him a devilish smile. “Now, you are smart, but can you figure out who they are in time?” She slid a small white envelope across the table. “The USB is empty. If you want to use it later, go right ahead.”

“Or not.” No way would he use that thing.

“It was a homing beacon so we could have this conversation.” Perfectly manicured nails nudged the envelope toward him. “In that is the evidence you need to stop this vilification of your character and work. Go on.”

Trace kept his eyes on her and slid the envelope closer. He lifted it and opened it. Four photographs dumped onto the table. “Why give this to me?”

“Majid is a man of his word.”

“And of a hundred deaths.” Trace still wasn’t happy with the arrangement, especially knowing The Turk was most likely trying to recruit Téya into his organization.

Badriyya gave a one-shouldered shrug with a pound of cockiness. “We all have our strengths, Colonel.”

“Why give me this? You could’ve just killed my asset and stiffed me.”

“The man in those photos is still smuggling weapons into our country, and though we know who he is, we have been unable to find who’s controlling him. Giving him the information and access. We want that. When you discover it, we could consider it a favor if you’d share.” She motioned with her dark red nails to the USB. “When you use it, the connect button will signal us. We’ll find you.” And with that, she walked out of the restaurant, knowing her guards would make sure she stayed alive.

Trace turned his attention to the photographs. He thumbed them into an arc around his plate of pizza. The man was Varden. Trace knew him. Boone knew him. He wasn’t a stranger. The first picture showed him with three different men. The second was a bit too blurry. But they were all centered around weapons caches. Proof positive that Varden was guilty as sin. Trace would love to run his butt up the pole now, but they needed the same information Badriyya needed—the source.

However, it was the last picture. . .the last one that had Trace shoving out of the seat and hurrying to his car. Phone to his ear, he waited for the call to connect, his chest pumping hard and angry.

“Yo, Boss-man.”

“Houston, I need an address.”

Frankie pulled into her one-car garage attached to the rear of her townhome. Limbs weighted with exhaustion and mind loaded with defeat, she made her way inside. She hated this part of her day, walking into an empty, dark home. . .alone. After flicking on the light, she immediately secured the locks on the back door, then dropped her satchel onto the counter and tossed her keys on top.

She glanced at the clock on her phone one last time and gave a considerable groan. Staying at the office, catching up on the mound of paperwork left after her bout of insanity and the hearing, she had enough to keep her there late for weeks to come. She grabbed a bottle of SOBE water from the fridge along with leftover Chinese and headed into the living room. She’d watch a couple reruns of
Fringe
, then get back to the files.

With the living room lamp light on, she turned on the TV and slid in a disc from season two, her favorite. She put her feet up and sat back with her leftovers. Paolo always said she was nasty for eating cold leftovers. But there were some restaurant foods that tasted just as good cold as warm.

Okay, that was a lie. She was just too tired to heat it up.

Leaning her head back, she closed her eyes. Truth be told, she was tired of fighting. Of swimming upstream against everyone else. It left her alone, friendless. For crying out loud, even Walter on
Fringe
had a cow for a pet. What did she have? What did her pursuit of justice, of making sure the right thing was done, get her but cold Chinese, old reruns, and a lonely apartment?

Depression had crept in. No denying it anymore. That plus a sizeable amount of defeat. She just couldn’t win. Sitting there, she felt the tug of sleep and promised herself a few minutes of rest. She deserved it after the week she’d had.

Frankie found herself standing in a park. It looked like Central Park, but she hadn’t ever been there, so she couldn’t be sure. She stumbled around, her legs feeling like they weighed a hundred pounds each. A low-hanging branch reached toward her. She pushed it away, but the craggy sticklike fingers coiled around hers. Startled, Frankie tried to pull free. She turned to extricate herself when she realized the brown branches had suddenly become delicate fingers.

Frankie looked up. And froze. The woman—she recognized her—stared back. Her eyes were hollow, lifeless. Her lips blue. What was she—some Goth or Emo punk?

“My family,” she said. “I can’t find my family.”

“S–sorry,” Frankie stammered, tugging against the woman’s hold. “I can’t help you.”

“But they don’t know. They don’t know what happened. Help me.”

Panic ripped through Frankie. “Let me go!”

And like that, the woman was gone. Frankie didn’t know where she went or why she’d even talked to her, but when Frankie looked around, the greenery of the park had taken on a darker, creepier feel.

She stood in the center of a hedgerow that formed a circle. Turning, she searched for a way out. “I can’t find you!” she shouted, then remembering she was supposed to be looking for him. “Don’t leave me. You can’t do this.”

She blinked and turned, the branches tussling apart and creating an opening. Frankie threw herself toward him, frantic. Though it was only a very short distance, it took her dozens of steps. Countless steps. She couldn’t get there. No matter how much she ran, that opening stayed just out of reach.

A thud behind her sent her pulse racing.

She looked back but only saw more branches. Waving—no, no. Not waving. Reaching. Trying to capture her. Unable to breathe, legs stuck in what felt like cement, she scrambled for the opening.

It was closing! “No!” She cried out and threw herself at the opening. She landed with a thud and scrabbled out of reach of the vines as they cleaved together, leaving not even a breath of space between the leaves.

Pulling to her feet, she dusted herself off, leaning against a large stone as she untangled a vine that had wrapped around her boot. But as she did, she noticed markings on the boulder. She angled away, hand still on the rock for balance.

Though she brushed away dirt and grime, it did no good. So she wiped more. And kept wiping. Until her heart jammed into her throat. It wasn’t a boulder but a headstone.

The lettering was strange, broken. But she knew instantly it was the marker for the Children of Misrata. And like a lasso, the vine she’d pulled off her boot snaked from her hand, growing, spinning, curling, and twisting until it finally latched onto the headstone. Then coiled around it. One time. Two times. Ten times. It pulled until she was pressed against the cold stone, hugging it. Then, the vine hauled harder, crushing Frankie against the stone. Face against the cold stone, the moonlight caught something. A glint. She saw silver. Silver oak leaf. What. . . ? She strained to pull away to get a better view. That’s when she saw the boulder wasn’t a headstone anymore. It was the broad shoulders of a man in uniform. And not just any man, but Colonel Weston.

Two loud booms rocked through the cemetery.

Frankie jerked. Then blinked. And sat up. On the floor in her living room, she groped for coherency. What happened? A dream. . .it was only a—

Thud! Thud-thud!

Her heart beat in cadence with the banging at the front door.

On adrenaline-weak legs, she made her way to the foyer. She squinted back into the living room and blinked sleep from her eyes that blurred her vision. 11:00? Who would be here this late?

“Who is it?” Frankie called through the door, then reached for the weapon she kept in the front closet.

The door crashed inward.

Frankie froze, realized her mistake, then made a last-second attempt to grab the weapon.

The man rammed into her. Shoved her backward. She screamed, but he thrust his forearm into her throat, severing her air. Frankie’s shock shifted to panic.

“What were you doing there?”

Struggling for oxygen, she tried every street fighting tactic she knew, including jabbing him in the side. But he had a vest on. That’s when her mind let in the small fact that her attacker was none other than Trace Weston. She blinked again.

In the distant thunder of her pulse against her temple, she heard him slam the door shut.

“Why. Were. You. There?” he growled, his face red, his eyes a torrent of rage and anger.

Air. She had to breathe. Her head felt like it’d explode. She batted his arm, trying to signal him to release her. But her eyes started rolling. He was going to kill her. Just like the others.

Then the force against her throat was gone.

Frankie cough-gasped, greedily hauling in air, still pinned to the wall.

“I’ll ask you one more time,” he said, his voice dead serious, “then I’m done talking—why were you there?”

She kept both hands on his arm in case he decided to follow through with killing her. “Wher—”

He slapped a picture at her. “Talk!”

It took a moment for her eyes to focus on the image. But when they did, Frankie knew she was in a lot of trouble, and that was only if Trace Weston didn’t kill her first. She snapped her gaze to him.

“Yeah,” he breathed into her face. “I know.”

“It’s not what you think.”

He sneered at her. “You have no idea what I think.” And he brought up the handgun.

“Now, wait,” Frankie said, her heart jostling against her ribs. “You can’t just kill me when—”

“Quiet!”

Trace Weston was formidable in court, but in confrontation like this. . .well, the courtroom version was tame. The man standing before her let Frankie know he meant business. He had the muscle, the skill, the determination. That last one burned through his irises, making those green eyes even more prominent. “On the couch.”

Frankie obeyed the order.

“Hands on your knees.”

She complied with that one, too.

“
Talk!
”

Frankie raised her hands. “Okay, okay.” She was breaking a dozen agency rules. She would lose her clearance. “I could lose everything if I tell you—”

“How do you think I feel, with you trying to pin your mess on my team?”

“My mess?” Frankie’s words came out shrill. “You don’t think I—”

He stood there, his back to the wall, arms extended but not straight. He was comfortable in that position. Though he was intent on his mission, he wasn’t stressed. This wasn’t new to him.

“I was recruited very quickly into Army intelligence. Quick thinking and tenacious, I was then put on assignment as an operative.”

“A spy.”

Frankie bit her tongue. Last thing she needed was to set off this man.

“Misrata.” He had thin lips that pulled into a flat, straight line, emphasizing his anger. That and his thick brow line that creased fiercely around those green eyes. “That’s all I care about.”

Reticent to unlock that vault, she let out a breath. “I will lose my job.”

“Three of mine lost their lives. Think I care about your career?”

She couldn’t argue that. But as she sat there, Frankie started riffling through the information, the facts, Trace being here. . .her dream. Being entangled with him in that cemetery. Both of them laid at the headstone.

“INSCOM had been tracking weapons that were supposed to be disposed of through proper channels but were, instead, showing up in skirmishes and in the hands of our enemies. We had credible intel that Misrata was a weigh station.”

His jaw muscle jounced.

“They said they needed a fresh face, someone their assets wouldn’t recognize, to go in and talk with the locals. Since I have darker than average skin and hair, I was tapped.”

“
Bull
.”

She looked at him in surprise.

“Missions like that don’t get filled with newbs. Too high value.”

Frankie swallowed. “I wasn’t a newb.”

He eyed her. “How many missions?”

She licked her lips. Hated admitting anything to this man. “My second.”

He snorted. Shook his head. “If you were there, if you were so keyed into HUMINT, how can you possibly think I’m behind what happened there?”

“What? You think just because you have a photo of me there, that this gets you off?”

“I did my job. My team went in, they blew the warehouse. That those kids were there was a mistake. A tragedy. Nothing else.” He hadn’t lowered the weapon. “But you. . .”

Frankie scowled at him. “What about me?”

“I have this photograph of a man known to be dealing with shady people.”

“Varden?”

He gave her a look, one that somehow showed she’d just revealed her hand. “Why was Varden there?”

“To oversee the operation.”

Trace hadn’t so much as flinched or relaxed. “Your father says you’re an intelligent young woman.”

“Do
not
bring him into this,” she snapped, the heat of anger rushing through her. “I will not let you bring him down—”

“Me?” He held up the picture. “You go forward with this insane trip to crucify me for something I haven’t done. . .” His jaw muscle flexed. “I can take it. You’ve dogged my steps, harassed me for five years, but so help me—if you go forward with those names, if you put the rest of my team in jeopardy”—his nostrils flared as he shook his head—“then I will make sure this makes it into the hands of some very well-known, powerful journalists. They’ll know you were there.” He rubbed his jaw, a glimmer of arrogance infiltrating the anger she noticed a second ago. “I might even suggest you’re trying to cover up your own actions by targeting me.”

Frankie punched to her feet. “You can’t do that!”

He snapped his weapon up, firming his posture. “You’ve done it to me for five years, saying I’m letting your father take the blame for something I did.”

She held up her hands. “Going to kill me?”

“I can. And I will, so help me.” He meant it. That much was evident in his posture, words, and gaze.

“Just like you did Reyna in Alaska and Herring in Vegas?”

Weston scowled. Seemed to deflate, but then surged again. “I have three team members I’ve fought to keep safe for sixty-two months. Now, your insane vendetta against me is putting them at risk.”

“Then come clean!”

He took a step forward, the weapon nearly touching her chest.

Frankie drew up short, her breathing going shallow.

“You are endangering their lives.” He flared his nostrils. “I can’t let that happen. No more are dying on my watch.”

“So, what? You want me to just—”

“Your own father told you I wasn’t guilty.”

“My father tells me what he thinks I need to hear.” It hurt to admit that, but Frankie had grown up as a general’s daughter with pampered information. “He still thinks of me as a fifteen-year-old.”

“Then maybe you should start acting your age.”

She gaped at him.

“You have a good brain. I’ve seen it. You’re dangerous only because you are on the wrong warpath.”

Frankie propped her hands on her hips. “What warpath should I be on, Weston? Because if you think I’m walking away just because you roughed me up and put a gun in my face—”

“Help me.”

Frozen by his words, Frankie stared at him. He seriously did not just say that. “Help you what? Help you get out of jail? Help you frame someone else?”